


the arsonists

by parke



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 80's AU, Aged-Up Characters, Aromantic Asexual Pidge | Katie Holt, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Cult AU, Developing Friendships, Family Fluff, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Hunk & Keith (Voltron) Friendship, Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Hunk & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Hunk (Voltron) Has Anxiety, Hunk (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Korean Keith (Voltron), Laith, Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Langst, Long-Term Relationship(s), Minor Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt is Savage, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Romantic Fluff, Samoan Hunk (Voltron), Sassy Pidge | Katie Holt, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), i've got a couple ocs, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 22:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15591663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parke/pseuds/parke
Summary: Now is the time for Lance to panic.With a cult at his heels, bloodthirsty and ready to tear his throat out, there’s not much else he can do. The only alternative to running is getting caught, and that means death.Cut to Keith.Keith, freshly kicked out of his home for reasons he’d rather not disclose, finds a job at the Milligan Motel. There are more cockroaches than inhabitants, the thermostat doesn’t even work, and his boss is too kind to ever get angry at.He would say he’s fucked himself over—only he hasn’t. Not until he meets Lance.Brought together through unstable circumstances and uncertain futures, the two grow to support each other like a pair of rotting bridge beams. But they’re both keeping secrets from one another—and in the end, that’s what keeps Keith entwined within the snare of Lance’s fate.





	the arsonists

**Author's Note:**

> Since this story taking place in the eighties, homophobia is still rampant. I do not condone any of these toxic attitudes towards the LGBT community, though for the sake of the story, they are elaborated on due to Lance's circumstances.
> 
> Also, each chapter's name foreshadows to the events which wil happen in the following chapter. Please keep this in mind.

_March_ _24th,1982_  
_Jett, Arizona_

What’s interesting is that I’ve never been a good liar. You’d think from all the years of forced conformation I would’ve turned out a fine one, but every time I’m caught in a tough situation I start sputtering like an old steam engine, worn out from keeping up my thin, mesh-like facade.

It may seem a little strange, but the lies you tell yourself are the most believable ones. You don’t have any pursed-lipped parents trying to poke holes in your story, and you sure as hell don’t have to cover your ass to escape punishment. In one’s mind, truth usually is punishment. No one wants to hear the complete truth. Ever. And before you tell me that what you want isn’t important, please consider the notion that self-manufactured lies often serve preservatory purposes.

So don’t think I’m not aware of what’s real and what’s not because of the way I go about revealing things in my head. There are times where I damn well know I’m being delusional, like when I try convincing myself I’m not a faggot, or a jerk, or mentally ill.

Those are sentiments I can’t bear to make peace with, and for good reason too.

“What about you, Lance?” Felix takes a sip of his drink, curls tumbling down his forehead, “have anything planned in the next three weeks?”

I flinch, my elbow knocking a fork off the wire table.

“Nice," Eric says.

“Fuck off,” I spit, redirecting my attention towards Felix, “Other than shadowing my uncle for a couple days, I’m free.”

“Good, good.”

One thing about Felix is that he dresses and speaks like an old man. He’s the kind of guy who shines his shoes everyday and wears wooly sweater vests year round. I’d write his behavior off as the by-product of prolonged exposure to strict, immigrant parents, but I know better.

My eyes travel along the porch’s beaten columns, ivy entwining first around and then between the holes in the lattice ceiling. Sun filters in semi-crosshatched patterns, illuminating the condensation forming along my drink and muddling my already half-impaired brain. Every movement is a chore; every conversation a mind-numbing burden.

I turn to Eric and kick him in the shin. A faint blush spreads around his face, and I’m glad his hair falls across the soft planes of his cheeks. We’d be fucked if he’d had a crew-cut or some shit, because Eric’s the kind of guy who’ll get embarrassed about anything, and his face is one to showcase that.

“And you?”

Eric’s wide eyes scan my face before flitting back down to his nachos. “Nothing, really.”

Our dialogue ends up winding down to a semi-comfortable silence, one in which the three of us bask in while wind chimes tinkle from nearby porches, announcing the arrival or departure of clients, guests and customers. Private shop owners tend to do this thing here in Jett where they hang wind chimes over doors. Most claim it makes a sort of music that fills our potholed streets with cozy melodies. The others claim to do it because it alerts them to new people entering the shop, and those are the ones who don’t make me sick to my stomach.

I wink at the waitress as she comes around with our chocolate cake. She smiles at me before handing over the check. Then she turns to Eric and removes his nacho platter while we pick at the dessert.

By the time we finish it and bicker over who’ll pay the check, we’re all bidding one another farewell in the parking lot. The early-spring heat beats down on our backs, and we’re all holding melted slushies we got from a vendor next door. I paid for them, mind you, and both my friends figured getting some weird-ass flavors would be fun. Interesting, even.

So here _I_ am, with a wallet devoid of any change and an oncoming brain-freeze.

“Wednesday works for you, right?”

“Yes, it does. I don’t think I will be doing anything,” Felix says, pulling out car keys from his pants pocket.

“Cool. And learn to use contractions more often. You’re starting to sound like an old man.”

He flashes a wry smile, but his eyes glitter with contempt as he gets into his Ford. He can’t be mad at me, at least not yet, though there’s something calculating in his gaze which makes my stomach churn.

See, I’ve got this bad habit where I agree to plans I can’t fulfill. Part of me knows it’s a shitty thing to do, except the idea of cancelling anything seems so finalistic, especially when taking into consideration the errands I’ve got to make time for. When I meant I’d shadow my uncle for a couple days, I meant half the break. The other half of it I’m working.

And sure, I could just skip a couple days of shadowing and hang out with Eric instead, but Felix has got a funny way of figuring out what others are up to—namely those he interacts with on the daily.

I turn away and lead Eric to my car. There’s a trash can at the end of the parking lot, just a few paces away from my Pontiac, so we head over and toss out our drinks.

Once we’re in the car I revv up the engine and turn on the radio, hoping to drown out the sound of my thoughts, now ricocheting and clamoring about my head.

“He’s gotten a lot colder towards us in the last couple of months. It’s a little strange, don’t you think?” Eric asks.

First day of spring break and he’s coming at me with the same old predicament. I don’t need to be worrying about this, and neither does he. We’ve just been released from the throes of stress and misery, back into a place where we’re free to do as we like without responsibility hanging over our heads like some massive stone gargoyle.

I clear my throat. Lick my lips. Take a deep breath.

“It’s probably because he’s been having lots of problems with his family lately.”

“You don’t think he’s caught onto our..thing, do you?”

“Felix's sweet as hell. Even if he found out, I’m sure he’d be okay with it.”

This, I know, is utter bullshit. But I’m not about to tell him how things actually are. Those moments are reserved for when we’re either drunk or shitfaced, where I can risk a couple jives with the truth disguised in loopy, lackadaisical humor.

I reach for a cigarette on the dashboard. Eric shoots me a look as Aerosmith plays away at ‘Remember’.

We’re building to the chorus before he speaks again.

“You know that’s not true.”

Cranking open the window as a gust of dry air rushes in, I pitch out the unlit cigarette.

“He’ll keep quiet, alright? Even if he didn’t, what’re we to do? Keep worrying? The past is the past, and there’s no way we can change it.”

His eyes remain trained on his lap. I go on quickly.

“He won’t say anything. Believe me, Eric. The boy knows firsthand what it’s like to be bullied and thrown around. You haven’t forgotten the stories he’s told us about grade school, have you?”

“No—”

“Point is, he gets it, and if he reported us to the dean I’d begin to question his complete lack of empathy.”

“No one could ever be compassionate enough to keep this thing—“

“Relationship.”

He swallows hard. “This relationship a secret.”

Eric, though smart and clever and witty, does not know how to approach any remotely emotional situation. He thinks if he complains about it enough and waves his arms around everything’ll be fixed in due time. To try and devise a solution is beyond him. _Chemical formulas_ , he once told me, are easy. _It’s hard to mess up if you have all the right information to execute them properly. You don’t need to worry about making the wrong move if you’re equipped with an instruction booklet of sorts_.

Yet, while that’s all right as rain in the summertime and red leaves in the fall, there’s an instruction booklet for social interaction as well. The rules, unlike atomic bonding, are simple: keep quiet around strangers, treat your parents well if they’re leaving you a will, and stay loyal to your partner till one of you cheats.

It’s not that fucking hard.

“All we need to do is act a little colder around him. Just quit worrying so much.”

When he laughs my guts shrivel up and goosebumps break out along my arms. The sound turns his voice from kind to ragged in the span of three seconds.

“Alright, Lance. Alright. We tried our best, huh. So if there’s nothing we can do now, let’s start acting reckless as can be while we’re at it.”

“I never said to—“

“What you need to do is stop sweeping issues like these under the rug.”

On that same token I could say he needed to quit acting so guilty all the time. Had he been able to conceal his ‘wrongdoings’ around people like Felix, he wouldn't have come around to suspecting anything in the first place.

And if I’ll be frank, it’s demeaning as fuck when he gets like this. I’m not his part time lover-boy or some weird-ass fetish of his. If he can’t come to terms with that then I don’t know where our relationship’s headed.

“I just offered a solution.”

“Not like it’ll mend the damage done!”

“I did what I could. What you need to do is stop acting so bashful when you’re around me. That’s what’s giving us away, dumbass.”

The words are out before I have time to realize their impact. I bite down on my tongue real hard, enough to draw out a steady trickle of blood. I’m gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead, and whenever the thought of apologizing arises I force the words down my throat the same way I force down the blood gathering in my mouth. My eyes are drifting to the passenger beside me, and it’s taking all my willpower to snap them back on the road.

Looking at Eric’s only going to make things worse and it’s not as if I don’t have the pouty look he gets on his face memorized. I know how he gets when he hears something harsh—his face goes pale, eyes go glazed and that wonderful jaw of his clenches. I do not need to look over at him any more than I need to apologize.

For a long time, I’d taken the blame for any fight we got into, despite being in the right or wrong. With us, that wasn’t what mattered. We never learned from our mistakes and ended up cultivating the ground for a mutually destructive relationship. Eric never acknowledged our issues and I wouldn’t dare bring them up after they’d been dealt with because anything was better than getting into another dispute. We were, after all, two guys holding it out beneath the muggy, polluted skies of America, our bodies slowly freezing in icy lakes of pleasure, lakes that we were advised against exploring till our feet had settled in the loose, unforgiving silt.

However, things will never be simple enough to where we can blindly accept advice, so long as we’re staying in this country where we’re told to change and politicians debate our rights as if they’re tossing a hot potato between one another.

Eric’s decrepit apartment complex pulls into view. The steps up to the second floor are crumbling and the vinyled sides of the building are covered in graffiti. The plant I got him last year is withering on his porch, leaves sagging and brown along the edges.

We exit the car and I follow him to his apartment. He’s putting the keys in the lock when I notice he’s left his blinds open and fan running.

When we enter the apartment I have to clench my jaw to keep it from dropping.

Scattered all about the floor are barbecue flavored chip bags, fluttering and whirling in the electrical fan’s weak current. There are cabinets left open in the kitchen and a pile of books thrown haphazardly on the counter for whatever good reason.

The thing which bothers me about all this is that Eric hates barbecue flavored chips. And he hates a messy apartment even more than he hates those chips.

Blood’s gathering in my mouth again. I don’t bother swallowing it.

“Eric, I’m so—”

“You’re not sorry.”

He turns to me now, and there’s this fucked-up part of me that relishes how beautiful he looks in the muted Arizona sunlight. I want to reach out and brush his hair away from his forehead and tell him everything’ll be okay, or maybe make him a cup of tea to calm him down a little while I play with his hair. All I want to do is something sweet, something sentimental, something that’ll just wipe the ugly sneer right off his face.

The other part of me is saying he’s just being a dick and that I should let him resolve his issues on his own. Too many times I’ve taken the blame, the blow, the burden, and I’ve had enough. Whether I’m in the right or wrong this time around doesn’t bother me one bit.

“Look, Lance, I can’t do this anymore.”

Sweet, forgiving Lance is shocked and wants to tell him he’s not thinking straight, that he ought to sleep on it, that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. This Lance wants to remind him of all the good times they shared together when Felix wasn’t present to ruin the moment. He wants Eric to stop talking nonsense and think about what he’s doing, trashing a perfectly good relationship for no apparent reason. He’ll tell Eric it’s those self-destructive tendencies getting at his head again, this isn’t him and never was.

But then there’s the truth, and I can’t shake that off, not when it’s staring down at me through gaping plastic holes. Right at this moment is when I notice the way Eric’s been dressing differently and spending more time away from me. At first I’d passed it off as stress from all those demanding, rigorous classes, even though we’re majoring in the same field and he only grew prettier rather than grislier with each passing day. He really should’ve looked like shit and felt like it too, but I passed off his new, clean-cut appearance as something to be proud of.

I was just glad he wasn’t relapsing.

“My academic career is at stake, and I need a break from you.”

“Fine.”

The word comes out thick and convoluted. I can feel my throat closing up and my face going red.

“You see, our relationship’s gone...stale.”

He says it as if he’s talking about a fucking piece of bread, one which he has no connection to and would toss without hesitation.

That’s probably what we’ve become though. We’re two closeted college kids looking for cheap pleasures and not actual love. When I discovered he was gay I didn’t care if he had a porn addiction. I didn’t care if he did heroin. I gave no heed to the warnings his tendencies displayed like bright flashing neon signs because all I wanted was a boyfriend. You didn’t come across gay folks too often and I’d been ready to leap at the chance of a potential relationship.

_Yeah, except it turned into an actual thing where you grew to love one another and bring each other up because neither of you had anyone else and...and..._

“Too bad it’s not my fault.”

Eric huffs.

“Don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you?!”

“I do, actually, and I think you’re fucking nuts to end what we’ve got ‘cause of this rift we’ve been having!”

Those plastic bags are drifting and flipping and cartwheeling on their sides every few minutes, laughing at us with detached interest.

“It’s clear this ‘rift’ isn’t going to mend itself. When you have frostbite, and your entire arm has gone purple, the wisest course of action is to cut it off. No sense in trying to bring it back.”

“Not everything can be explained in your stupid poetic metaphors.”

There’s that laugh again, soft and low, sliding its way through my head and into a caddy of memories I’ll have trouble forgetting.

“At least I’m not denying what we have is toxic.”

“It’s toxic because you’re making it toxic.”

“Well good, because I’ll be the one to end it!”

“No you’re not. Won’t. You won’t.”

“You can’t even talk ri—“

“You better shut your trap before I stuff it with that revolver you’ve got.”

Another silence descends upon the room, except this one’s nothing like the way we basked on the porch out in Ninto’s cafe. Here is where I can’t breathe the air, heavy with unsaid insults and evermore conflict looming on the brow of the horizon. I’m sure the discomfort is expansive in its qualities, because before two minutes pass Eric’s voice is slicing through the air.

“I’m done with you. I should’ve known long ago that you weren’t normal from the skittering way you carried yourself. At this point, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you killed someone. How long will it be until you realize your anger’s going to land you into loads of trouble? How long will it be until you get thrown in prison, with no one to visit you because you never tell your relatives anything and once they find out the truth it’ll all be too late? Tell me, Lance. Just tell me.”

“This is ironic coming from someone who beats their mom.”

“But I don’t make death threats on the whim, do I?”

I take a step back. My shoulders slump and my head spins. Exhaustion is the guest who, when uninvited, will compel you to chase it out with an old broom, belittling it like a mean, harmless mongrel.

And yet sometimes mongrels make great company when you have no one to turn to as the world slips into bleak haze before your eyes. When all good has vanished and so the idea of ceasing to exist turns intriguing— _that’s_ when exhaustion’s a blessing.

“And I don’t happen to—“

“Can you just stop? Please?”

Eric’s winces, reproach and doubt evident on his soft features, probably since my command comes out more plea than anything else.

“Alright.”

He’s won this time. Again. And I’ll be out of his apartment shortly, left to wonder who he’d been seeing and how long he’d been doing it.

But for now I’ll take a seat, keep quiet, and let my mind reel. I’m trying to tell myself I know what to do next. This fabled ‘next’ I tell myself about requires lots of patience to work properly; and although I’m aware the plan’s outrageous, the whole coaxing portion of it is what keeps me going.

____________________________

 _March 26th, 1982_  
_Jett, Arizona_

Alicia’s feeling her way along the gift, hands tracing over the seams of tape. She’s trying to find a way to open it without ruining the paper.

“Go ahead and tear it. That’s what it was made for.”

Alicia looks up at me and grins, her smile filled with more gaps than teeth.

I’m hoping she’s still into race cars. I’m also hoping this isn’t the same car I bought her last month.

A short, brief war is fought within the confines of my head whenever I buy her a gift. I don’t want her to see me for the presents I get her, though I also want to be her favorite uncle. Sure, there are other means of which she could like me, I just don’t have a lot of time to go about building our relationship up that way.

After she tears it open, the yellow wrapping now crumpled up into little tumbleweeds, Alicia tosses her present to the side and gives me a hug. If I’d already bought her this, she clearly can’t recall receiving it.

“Thank you, _Tio_! I love it!”

“Now,” I say, forgetting about the prospect that she may’ve broken her gift. “What did I tell you about calling me _Tio_?”

She pulls back, a piece of hair falling from her braid. “Sorry. Lance.”

My niece has been conditioned to putting either tio or tia in front of anyone’s name, so long as they’re significantly older than her. Whenever she calls me _Tio_ I feel like a man going on forty with a receding hairline and beer gut. I don’t need that kind of image meddling with my twenty-two year old self. Besides, the whole idea of putting a prefix in front of your elders’ names is bullshit—it stems from the notion that they deserve more respect because they’re older than you, and all it does is pronounce the division between older and younger generations.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Want me to get your other cars?”

“Can you get my Barbies too? So we can race?”

A cockroach goes scuttling across the floor. I pretend not to notice.

Right now, we’re in my sister’s apartment, and situated across the street is the dollar store and gas station. This isn’t a great part of town, but the man working at the gas station always lets us get free slushies since he knows Veronica personally. And by that I mean they’re kind of a thing.

But Alicia isn’t ready to accept someone new into her life. Hell, I wouldn’t be either if I’d gone through the same shit she has.

By the time I round the corner and open up her toy chest, I hold back a laugh.

“What do you do to these poor dolls?!”

Most of them are missing one limb or another, and those which aren’t are devoid of a head. They look like they’re part of a Barbie apocalypse or some kind of sci-fi experiment gone wrong.

“Um. I play with them.”

“Looks more like you abuse them to me.”

Then she bursts into laughter.

A while back, when she was around four, Veronica took her to a psychiatrist because she feared Alicia exhibited violent tendencies. To her, that entailed finding pleasure in ruining exclusively humanoid toys. What she didn’t realize, or rather, what she failed to realize, was that Alicia simply found anatomy fascinating. The dismemberment didn’t please her; the examination, which came later, did.

We settle to shoving the racers into the sports cars, and Alicia goes as far as to tie all her dolls’ hair back so it doesn’t ‘get in their eyes’ while they race.

Considering that she’d mangled them beforehand, I don’t see why this matters.

As always, I let her win without giving off the vibe that I wasn’t trying my hardest. Most kids aren’t the type to like special treatment when it comes to games, although they’re especially selective in deciding when to notice this ordeal.

So I’m throwing my hands up whenever she wins and groaning about it for a couple seconds before we’re racing again. Evidently, we don’t keep track of time very well, because soon enough Veronica’s car is pulling up in the parking lot.

“Well,” I say, rising from the patchy rug, “Looks like I’ve got to get going.”

“No!”

Her eyes are fixed on me, sparkly as ever. She’s trying to give me a sad, pouty look, and I appreciate the effort. I really do. It’s only a matter of time till her eyes recede back into her skull and her curls go dull and frizzy. Might as well enjoy her beauty while it lasts, since those coos from strangers and relatives alike will disappear all too quick.

And I know Alicia won’t take that well the way she wouldn’t take the new addition to the family well. So I say the only thing I can.

“I’ll see you on Sunday. Don’t fret.”

Then I lean down and scoop her up into a hug.

Once my sister gets married, our babysitting sessions will wane down to the occasional situation in which Veronica won’t be home. Of course, she doesn’t know that, and she won’t till next month. From here on out though, I’ll have to make sure our friendship won’t turn into an impersonal, shallow alliance.

“I love you, _Tio_ Lance.”

“Love you too, _mi pollito_.”

When Veronica barges in through the doorway she’s carrying a great big bundle of groceries from each of her slender arms.

“Wonder where you’ve been.” I tip her a wink.

“Ah, would you piss off ‘n help me out?!”

“Language!”

Veronica looks awful scared for a moment as she sees that Alicia’s quit playing with her car momentarily. Then she rolls her eyes.

“Not like she doesn’t know what it all means by now.”

Even if she did, Veronica still wouldn’t state it loud enough for her daughter to hear. Sole reason I’m in on this comment’s because I’m filching a couple bags from her right arm. We’re practically nose to nose as she says it.

I set the bags on the counter after her. She falls onto the couch and props her feet up.

“Okay, Lance. You can leave now.”

“After caring for that demon you just throw me out like that?!”

Alicia giggles in the back. My sister chides her for doing so.

“Well, I have things to do.”

“And so do I.”

I take a seat next to her.

“You son of—“

“Language.”

“A not very nice woman.”

“We have the same mother.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

Veronica turns to Alicia. “Go to your room. Me and Tio Lance need to have a talk.”

She groans and picks her new toy up off the floor. Her ratty floral dress drags behind her as she shuffles down the hall. I look to Veronica once the door shuts.

“So..how was it?”

Her gaze darkens. “He’s been weird lately. Justin’s been busted for dealing drugs.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. His whole family got questioned, and now his brother’s kids’re living with him.”

“Did they not get put in foster care?”

“Nah. My boyfriend’s got custody over them.”

Raphael’s a nice guy and all, but I doubt he’s able to support them. The man barely makes enough to pay the rent off his gas station. Paying to keep two kids alive—three, if Veronica doesn’t break up with him in the near future, is ridiculous. He’ll never be able to do it, regardless if my sister decides to help him out.

“Ver, you sure this is a good idea?”

“I know what I’m getting myself into. I’ve already secured another job.”

“What?! When?”

“Next week.”

She shouldn’t have to make all these sacrifices. Working two jobs with a toddler at home isn’t right. It isn’t fair. Call me idealistic or whiny or whatever it is you call a guy who sees things for what they truly are, but I’m not going to shut up and just let my sister do this.

And what’ll Alicia do if her mom’s practically gone all the time? Sit around and stare at the walls, waiting for someone to feed her and take her to the park and play with her? I sure as hell can't babysit her for more than what I’m managing now—and three days a week isn’t apt to stay anyway, not with my shadowing starting Monday.

“I don’t think I can—“

“Don’t worry. I got another babysitter for Alicia.”

Fuck.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t expect you to watch over my kids twenty-four seven while you’re in Med school,Lance.”

“I could’ve helped you with the money.”

“You’re nearly broke yourself.”

Okay, but I’m not trying to single-handedly support a family with two minimum wage jobs. What’s worse is that my back-breaking work isn’t putting the well-being of those I love on the line. Veronica’s being reckless, and she won’t realize she’s screwed herself over till it’s too late.

“I can’t believe Miguel did that. The dickhead.”

My mouth speaks of its own accord sometimes, regardless of the consequences. I don’t even want to talk about this myself—honest. Bringing this up stokes an already blazing fire, the same fire which fuels Veronica to help her family out the best she can.

In retrospect, this may seem productive. Healthy, even. Venting out your anger on the guy who started this whole fiasco seems reasonable enough, and what am I to do when my sister’s got to bear the brunt of this situation? As if she hasn’t so many times in the past?

“Can we not talk about th—“

“He’s got enough money to support both you and Alicia for a lifetime, yet he doesn’t even want to pay child support. It’s so…”

I trail off.

Veronica doesn’t even bother responding. Instead, she keeps her eyes downcast, the sound of cars swooshing outside magnified. The hum of the refrigerator fills the growing quiet, and I can smell the remnants of the quesadillas I microwaved for Alicia.

“Don’t tell me you fed Alicia those quesadillas gain.”

“They taste better than they smell.”

“Oh my God.”

“You’re letting them sit there in the freezer. You expect me to take Alicia out somewhere to eat when there’s perfectly edible food sitting at home?”

“Perfectly edible’s an overstatement.”

“They’re really not that bad.”

To this she flips on the TV.

“The Risers are playing.”

We don’t even like baseball.

I try bringing up the issue a couple more times, and in reply Veronica asks me to go fetch her a soda or make some popcorn. We may both be adults, but she'll always be my bigger sister, and the instinct that I should serve her's been drilled into my head whether I like it or not.

One of the players makes a homerun. I can't help but feel something's missing, an essential undertone of the conversation obliterated. It's not that I relish conflict or anything. I don't bring these disputes up for nothing. They need to be dealt with, solved and forgotten about.

However, if Veronica wants to evade these impending issues, that's fine too. Sometimes you need to let your problems slip to the part of your mind filled with inessential, trivial information, and it seems I need to remind myself of that more often than ever.

"Think Alicia's lonely?"

“Wouldn’t hurt to bring her on over."

I yell for Alicia to come join us.

Then we promptly take out all the board games and set to leaving our issues for another time, as we prepare to argue over play pieces and throw die with hands as precarious as fate's.

  
***

  
There’s this woman wandering her way down the aisles, lingering on price tags too long with perpetual frown etched onto her face. She looks like a giraffe lost in a sea of tropical flowers, bushes and trees.

I left Veronica's a couple hours ago, and I'm tired as hell. I didn't have time to take a shower either, so I probably stink. Normally I'm pretty good at taking care of myself. It's just that I've been preoccupied lately. It'll pass over, though. It always does.

The lady's now moving on to the next plant, sticking her fingers in the soil and fondling the petals. With the deserted floor and her clueless nature, it looks like I'll have to help her out.

“Ma’am?” I tap her on the shoulder. “Having trouble finding what you want?”

She spins around. “Huh—oh.”

Before responding she surveys the area, eyes scanning over every nook and cranny in the greenhouse. Then she shrugs.

“I suppose I am.”

We fall into the stilted conversation of the pushy sales rep and picky customer. I ask her a slew of questions before she gives me a monosyllabic response, one that leads me to ask a couple more questions, none of which are necessary, all of which are nuanced.

“So your rose bushes are dying.”

“Haven’t I told you that already?”

“Just making sure, because there are different fertilizers you have to use depending on—”

“Is there anyone else who can help me out?”

She mutters it under her breath, but if she didn’t want me to hear that she wouldn’t have said it at all. I’m less than four feet away from her. Everything carries over.

“Sorry ma’am.”

The woman goes red when she hears this, a blush creeping up her pale, skinny neck. She fingers her faux pearl necklace and begins walking faster. To an outsider, she looks more like the associate helping me out, despite the fact I’m wearing our uniformed apron.

“What I want is something like Miracle-Gro. You know what that is, right?”

Of course I know what it is. I work in the fucking gardening section of Home Depot.

“Yeah. Need me to get some for you?”

I try keeping my tone light, conversational, my eyes studying her wrinkly face. She’s got on the kind of blue eyeshadow reserved strictly for women over sixty, and her ears sag almost as much as her tits. I’m willing to bet the reason she’s so invested in her damn bushes is because everything in her life’s already fallen apart. The poor thing doesn’t need her yard looking as dead as she feels.

“No.”

Then she reaches down and grasps the bag by its bottom. The stringy muscles in her arm strain with the effort. I leave her like that for a couple more beats before I squat down and help out, my arms reaching over hers.

We’re halfway up when she flinches and lets go of the bag.

If my hold hadn’t been as strong as it was the bag would’ve fallen on my foot, but I say nothing and plop it into her cart.

“Careful with it.”

“My apologies. Need help with anything else?”

“No. I’m fine. You can leave.”

Heading over to the cash register to ring up her items, I see her cart cut a different way through the greenhouse and over to another employee. He looks like Cameron from over here.

My stomach sinks.

She dives headfirst into what I assume is a complaint, weaving her story with a rising voice and animated hand gestures. I don’t need to listen in on what she’ll say. Word’ll get by soon enough.

Cameron’s the only person willing to treat me like an equal around here, and I know what’ll happen after the hag makes her complaint. At best I’ll get a stern talk from our boss, and at worst I’ll be put on probation.

The nonchalant chirps of the birds perched above trickles down to where I’m at, sweaty and squirming in my tattered gardening boots. Clouds float over each other outside, casting the greenhouse in a dark gloom. I begin playing with my Cuba bracelet, fingering the stitched lettering as I hear snatches of conversation.

“I’m very sorry to hear that ma’am, we’ll—”

“Sorry? Is that all you’re going to say?! Your friend Larry just tried touching me!”

“I’ll make sure my supervisor—”

“That boy’s on his way to becoming a sex offender, I tell you!”

I bury my face in my hands and let out a long groan.

“—ring up your items?”

“Of course I need someone to do that for me! Now help me over.”

I can hear her traveling through the aisles, keeping up a passionate, one-sided conversation with Cameron. No one else is around to take my spot; it’s like they’ve all receded into what little shadow this place offers.

My heart starts beating low in my chest, the pulse carrying up to my temples. Beneath the expansive windows and trapped between the wide walls of this place I feel too tall, too dark, too different. My problem isn’t something like a big forehead or bushy brows, both of which I could hide beneath my curly hair. No; my problem is the entirety of my being, a sum of the parts I cannot and will not fix.

By all means I should be angry. I should be standing up for myself. I shouldn’t try to sympathize with this hag, telling myself she had a reason to hate us because of the way things are run back in my country. Cuba’s communist, yeah, but that doesn’t mean we all worship Fidel Castro and sell weed as a pastime.

Though as she makes her way over I’m just wishing I could be more like Eric, lily-white and sweet with little to worry about. All he had to do was make sure people didn’t find out he liked guys. And maybe I’m thinking that’s my fault for making him realize that.

I unroll my sleeves, covering the array of bracelets on my arms. I make sure my Cuba one isn’t visible under my dark pressed shirt.

“That’s him. The boy I was talking about.”

Cameron’s head snaps over to look at me, wincing. He doesn’t want to believe her, I can tell, although his knitted eyebrows’re telling me I just fucked up.

Again, I should be angry. Enraged, even. And from the way Cameron looks at me, all disbelief and disgust and sorrow at the same time, I should meet with him after work and tell him what a phony he is for ever being kind to me. I could damn well take care of myself, and if his kindness won’t stretch as far as to defend me when I need it, then what’s the point?

“Lance, I’ll ring her things up. That okay with you?”

I just nod like one of those corny bobblehead figurines you get from gift shops.

We exchange spots and the woman’s hand shoots out.

“None of you dirty Latinos have any place in this country, you’re all rapists and criminals and—”

There comes the ring of the cash register.

“Would you like this in a bag, ma’am?”

Then she looks back over her shoulder and spits, “Fucking barbaric, I tell you—yes, a bag would be fine.”

It’s not until she prances out the door that the other employees return to their spots like actors in a play, some clad in aprons with customized stitching and others sporting ones laden with political pins pining for a ‘Better, More Equal America’.

One particular ‘politically proactive’ employee lingers by. Her name’s Casey or something. For a second I think she’ll come over and check up on me until I realize she probably values her job more than the feelings of some coworker she barely knows.

I can hear her pins clacking together as she tends to the plants in aisle thirteen.

When I come around to tidying up the place myself, fiddling with price tags and rearranging neatly stacked tools, a hand falls upon my shoulder.

“Could you head over to my office?”

I don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Sure thing.”

The trip to his office is a quick one devoid of conversation. I trail behind my boss while he weaves through the area. He’s new to his position, and the only way I can tell is through the way he still walks with a bounce in his step. It’s kind of sad considering he’s about forty and feels this in control of life. I’m not trying to invalidate him or anything, it’s just that being a manager in our shoddy gardening department isn’t such a big accomplishment.

What really kills me is the way he’s taking all this so seriously. And what’s worse is that he’ll quit doing so pretty soon. If he kept at his job with the same amount of enthusiasm without it ever wavering then I could laugh. I could have a reason not to feel bad about him. I guess what I mean to say is that they all start out like this, thinking a slightly higher wage and a couple of privileges will make them feel better about themselves.

He shuts the door behind us.

“I’m not going to ask you what happened.”

“I...Why not?”

I don’t want him to. Really. It just doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t.

“Because I know what happened. And I saw the way you handled things out there,” he takes a long swig from his tumbler. “Look, I’m not going to fire you. All’s I mean to do is give you a warning.”

He’d be stupid to do otherwise. The last time someone new came around to applying here was ‘78 and the other four I work with (excluding Cameron) don’t have a single clue of what they’re doing. I think I’d be more shocked than upset if he went ahead and fired me.

There’s got to be a catch to this though, so I press my luck and prod at his statement.

“Is that all?”

“Well I’m putting you on probation. I hope you weren’t naïve enough to think I’d let you off so easy.”

An abrupt hush falls over the room where the only sounds to be heard include the pops emitting from the bug zapper on the wall. To be honest, I don’t think he’s doing this because he genuinely believes Cameron. I don’t even think Cameron believes the hag bitch, not if he took time to think about the situation. And you can’t convince someone to believe your story if you think it’s a load of bullshit yourself.

So he’s probably acting this way because it’s one of those things you do to maintain decency. The lady would no doubt tell her friends about how I tried groping her, and despite the notion that she may not return to our shop, my boss would still try to ‘set things right’.

Another thing I find endearing is how he cares so damn much. There’s a freedom to be gained once you quit giving a shit about anything, and ever since Eric’s dumped me, I’ve felt hollow. Nothing irks me nearly as much as it used to, and because of this, I’m able to put things in perspective.

“Fair enough.” I resist shrugging my shoulders.

Now he’s looking at me through his thick bifocals, and I can tell he’s trying to work out whether I’m being sarcastic or mature.

Thing is, I don’t know myself. And he doesn’t know either because shortly after a few more words are exchanged, he dismisses me from the room.

My heart is still waiting for the catch, but my mind’s fending it off with subpar logic. I’m so used to having matters get warped into disasters before I can even recognize what I’ve done wrong. Not often am I at the mercy of fate.

Still, what’s happened isn’t good—it’s just a lot better than things could’ve been. You never truly know what to expect when you’re living here. Not in Jett.


End file.
